Collateral Warfare
by bellenque
Summary: The only way he'd kept from breaking was by taking out his frustration in bed. But after a while, not even the prettiest of girls could ease his pain. And yet in some strange way she seemed to understand his struggles. Clarke knew that sometimes you need to be strong so that other people don't have to be. Bellamy was just surprised it had taken her this long to break. Bellarke
1. Chapter 1

Her steps were forced and deliberate as she entered the camp; head down, eyes staring blankly at her bloodied shoes, hand clutching tightly to the knife, unable to move her fingers from their death-grip.

Clarke was frozen inside. Her mind had muted the world and all she could hear was Finn's dying breath repeating itself over and over in her head. That look—oh that look he gave her— pleading and guilty and knowing. He had asked too much of her. Far, far too much.

But who was she to deny him what he wanted? He'd begged her, knew what was going to happen. And all Clarke could think about was how his selfishness had never ceased, even in his last moments. Did he know how she would feel; what she would do? Even now, as she walked closer to the silent group of friends and Ark members, it was difficult to resist the urge to plunge the knife into her own heart and just let everything go.

But she couldn't.

Stepping closer to the group, Clarke noticed that they were all staring at her, as if waiting for something to happen, for her to break, for her to give up. And under all of the scrutiny and expectations, the knife felt hot and sharp in her hand and she dropped it, fingers flinging open. Her eyebrows scrunched together and she took a step back. She could hardly deal with herself. How was she supposed to face everybody else?

"Clarke," a soft voice said, and she looked over to see her mom, hand outstretched. Abigail took a step forward.

"I understand Clarke, you don't need to shut yourself out."

Clarke stared into her warm eyes for a minute before realizing what she had said.

"Of course you do," she responded hollowly. "Dad would too."

Clarke paused only a minute to admire the irony before moving her gaze a few inches past her mother and over to another tear-stained face.

Raven.

She had never seen the girl look so broken—so sad— and she knew that whatever friendship they had right now would have to be restarted from scratch.

"Raven," Clarke murmured, before making her way towards her.

The closer she got, the more the girl's eyes darkened and the more her expression became determined and hostile. But Clarke knew what was coming. Clarke knew what was going to happen once she entered her personal space; once she got close enough to remind Raven of what had happened.

_BAM!_ The slap sent Clarke to the ground and her eyes welled up in pain. _I deserve it_, she thought. _I deserve it._

Another forceful thrust was delivered to Clarke's ribs and she managed to look up just in time to see somebody pulling the screaming girl off of her, arms waving and legs flailing like a child throwing a tantrum. Strong arms wrapped around Clarke's waist and she felt herself being lifted back into a standing position, her knees and feet wobbling as she tried to regain her balance. Her eyes were still locked on Raven, who was staring at her ferociously, as if wanting to deliver the same death that Clarke had delivered to the boy she loved.

"I'm sorry," she managed to choke out. "Raven, I didn't have a choice. I loved him too."

Raven made to lunge at her, but Jasper managed to hold her back, directing her towards another part of camp.

Clarke watched her leave, noting the glare she sent over her shoulder as they led her away.

"Clarke," a deep voice murmured, and she came to realize that it was Bellamy who was holding her steady. Taking her hands, she gently pried his arms from around her waist, turning to face him.

The look in his eyes was enough to make her cry. Sympathy. God she didn't deserve that—didn't deserve anything anymore.

"Why aren't you"—her voice cracked—"why don't you hit me?" she asked, and her eyes closed painfully as if warding the tears off, and her head dropped slightly as if trying to offset the painful weight on her shoulders.

He didn't respond for a minute and when she looked up through watering eyes, she could see his eyebrows scrunched together in confusion.

"I'm a murderer. I killed my best friend," she tried to clarify over the muffled sadness in her voice. "I—I'm a bad person, Bellamy. So hit me, just like Raven."

He watched her break, not quite knowing what to say, not quite knowing how to put his thoughts into the right words—

"I deserve it!" She was becoming agitated now, angry. A fist landed squarely on his chest. "Go on!" She was yelling now, sobbing and yelling. "Hit me!"

And in that moment, all Bellamy could think to do was to wrap his arms around her and hold her as tight as possible. And so he did.

She continued to deliver blows to his stomach, but they were weak and he could feel her softening as he let his head come to rest in between the curve of her neck and the top of her shoulder. She just needed something to hold her together. She needed him.

And slowly, the fighting stopped and slowly she curled her fingers into the front of his shirt and slowly, ever so slowly, he began to feel her leaning into him and relaxing.

"I'm sorry," she was whispering. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

There was nothing to be said; nothing he could say. Bellamy understood.

Bending down slightly, he wrapped his arm into the bend of her knee and used his other to support her back, lifting her from the ground and into the air.

She didn't even protest.

"It's not your responsibility," he said. "You didn't have a choice."

If she heard him, she didn't acknowledge it and Bellamy continued to make his way towards his tent.

"Clarke!" he heard a voice call behind him. Her mom. Abigail came to stand in front of him and Bellamy didn't miss the way Clarke's head turned further into his neck.

"Ms. Griffin, I think Clarke just needs some time alone," he said, trying to sound authoritative.

"Bellamy, I understand why you think so, but Clarke is my daughter and—

He felt something shift in his arms. "Mom. Please," it said and he'd never heard something sound so desperate before.

Abigail looked into her daughters eyes and Bellamy thought that maybe she did understand to some extent because the next moment, she had kissed Clarke on the forehead and walked away, giving Bellamy a very pointed look as she did so.

Readjusting his hold on Clarke, Bellamy continued through the camp, avoiding people's glances and whispers. One guy even cracked a smile and gave him a "thumbs up", to which Bellamy almost lost his cool and would have strangled if it weren't for the fact that he was carrying a person. Shaking off the anger, he finally reached his make-shift tent.

Clarke hadn't spoken at all and he didn't bother annoying her with questions or creating awkward tension, so he just set her down on the bed and sat next to it without a word.

Finally, five minutes later, a small voice whispered. "Thank you."

Bellamy looked over to see her staring at the ceiling of the tent. Her hands were intertwined tightly in her lap, although her eyes seemed to have dried.

"No problem," he said. There were a few more moments of silence before she spoke again.

"I think I'd like to be alone for a little while," she said, glancing over at him. He met her gaze and nodded, understanding.

"Okay, he responded, standing up. "I'll come back later, princess."

Just as he was about to open the flap, Clarke's voice called him back.

"Bellamy?"

He turned around to see her staring blankly at him, tears beginning to form again.

"Don't ever call me that again."

He nodded. "Bye, Clarke," and walked out.


	2. Chapter 2

The moment he left, Clarke was sobbing. She hadn't cried this much since her father was killed and the sudden flash of pain that came with guilt reopened sealed wounds. She curled into a ball, thankful for the privacy, and clung to Bellamy's pillow, inhaling his scent in hopes of getting her mind off of what she had done. Thoughts clogged her head and muddled her sense of time. She didn't know if it had been ten minutes of an hour when the sound of a zipper against nylon broke her concentration.

"Please go," she said again, trying to keep the tears out of her voice. She was met with silence before a voice made her stiffen with hatred and fear.

"Hello, princess."

Clarke froze for a moment before turning over to meet the intense gaze of Murphy.

"Get out," she said quickly, managing to make her voice sound more stable than she felt.

He took a step forward, a look playing in his eyes that Clarke knew was anything but friendly. She shot up to her feet, defense mode kicking in.

"But why, Clarke?" he said smiling. "We have so much in common now." She didn't miss his slow step forward. He might have been saved more times than he was worth, but Clarke knew that she was nowhere near trusting him. He was responsible for Charlotte's death. They had banished him and if there was one thing Clarke knew about the psychological development of people like Murphy, it was that they often fail to forgive and forget. He was a threat.

"We have nothing in common, Murphy," she responded. "You're a sick person who murders innocent—" suddenly she stopped and her eyes widened because she realized that what he said was true. She was a murderer now too.

Murphy seemed to understand her pause and took advantage of her momentarily paralyzed state.

"See," he said, sounding more amiable than Clarke felt comfortable with. "We're just the same. I'm responsible for Charlotte's death and you're responsible for Finn's. We've both killed one of our own." He paused for a moment, as if in deep thought.

"Actually," he said chuckling. "I've killed three and you've got two: Atom and Finn. Gosh princess, you're almost beating me at my own game," and this time his smile was more hostile than friendly.

Thousands of stray thoughts were trying to piece themselves together in Clarke's mind, but all she could manage to say was:

"Three?"

"Yes, Clarke. Oh I guess you didn't know. Connor and Myles are on me too. Couldn't let them get away with what they did to me for what I didn't do."

Clarke remembered them trying to hang Murphy and then their sudden deaths. Both had been found unconscious and without pulse, but Clarke had attributed it to the disease.

"Why are you telling me this?" she whispered, taking a step back. Her darting eyes gave away her fear.

Murphy looked at her easily. "Because you hate me. But guess what? You're just like me now. So you must hate yourself too. Poor, poor Clarke. Always so many people around you, putting responsibility on your shoulders and expecting for you to be capable of everything they ask. But you're gonna break princess, aren't you? Just like crazy Murphy. All that stress, all that pressure, it's gonna build up and then poof! Finn will just be one of many."

"Stop," Clarke spat out. "Stop."

"Why, princess? Can't handle the truth? Can't handle the pain?" His expression was furious now and his hands were shaking, but still he didn't touch her. It seemed that words were enough. He took another step forward, which was met with one of her own, but she hit the back of the tent and panic began to well up inside of her like the kindling of a flame.

"Don't call me that," she said, blinking back tears.

"Princess, princess, princess," he said mockingly. "You're such a coward, Clarke. You're so weak, so vulnerable. You act strong all of the time, but now I see that you're no better than me."

A strange feeling was spreading across her chest, a constricting claw that weaved its way from her heart and through her ribs. She gasped for air.

"Murphy, stop," she choked. "STOP!"

He closed the distance between them, a hand coming forcefully under her chin to direct her gaze at him. She felt the world closing in around her.

"How does it feel, princess?," he hissed. "How does it feel not to breath? To be an outcast, a murderer?"

"I can't—" she clutched her chest as a sharp stabbing made its way through her diaphragm. "Please—" she choked.

"How does it feel to have nobody to help you?"

Clarke tore away from his grip with her remaining strength and darted for the door, but a tight grip around her waist stopped her. She was flung to the ground with a thud, wheezing and pressing her palms against the center of her chest. Tears blurred her vision.

"Bye, princess."

She couldn't breathe.


	3. Chapter 3

Bellamy raked a hand through his hair and made his way across camp. Of course she would need some time alone, he understood, but he was, admittedly, a bit scared to leave her by herself after what had just happened. Taking one last glance at his tent, he made his way over to his sister's, hoping she would be able to give him some sort of advice.

"Octavia," he called. "You in there?"

"Just a minute," he heard a voice call. Bellamy folded his arms into his chest and waited.

"Okay," he heard her, closer this time, as she exited the tent. She made immediate eye contact with him ,a million questions already on the tip of her tongue. Blue eyes shone with concern and curiosity.

"Is she okay?" she asked first, as Bellamy motioned for her to follow him.

"Yeah she'll be—," he stopped himself before he could finish the sentence and let out a long sigh, rethinking his answer.

"I don't know, Octavia. I don't know."

Octavia could see the worry in his eyes. Clarke was one of their best medics and best leaders. They couldn't do anything without her. And whether Bellamy would admit it or not, she knew that her brother had a soft spot for Clarke.

"Is there anything I can do?" she asked. "Do you want me to talk to her?"

"No, no," he was already shaking his head. "She just wants to be alone for a while."

Octavia nodded and bit her lip. "You know, I read about these…well, they're not parties, they're sort of the opposite. Anyways it's when a bunch of people get together to mourn the death of a loved one."

Bellamy quirked an eyebrow. "A funeral? You want to give Finn a funeral?"

Octavia shrugged. "It might put Clarke's mind at ease," she said. "They're supposed to give the loved one a sort of…better ending I guess."

"They're sad, Octavia. Clarke doesn't need any more sadness. She's barely holding together as it is."

Octavia sighed. "Well it was just a suggestion. Maybe you could find the body, just so she can finally say goodbye."

Bellamy thought for a moment. "You think that would help?"

"I don't know, maybe. Saying goodbye always helps."

"Okay," he said nodding. "I'll see what I can do."

Suddenly, he spotted Ms. Griffin walking towards them. He patted Octavia on the back.

"I'll catch up with you later, okay?"

She nodded in response. "Keep me posted."

Clarke's mom seemed to have spotted Bellamy for she was already making her way towards him.

"Bellamy, I'd like to speak with my daughter," she said determinedly.

Bellamy closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. "Clarke wants to be alone right now," he said. "She needs time to process and to grieve."

Abigail's eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you telling me that you have more authority over my daughter than me?" she suggested. "Because I can tell you right now, young man—"

"No, no," Bellamy stopped her. "She asked to be alone. She…just give her some time."

Abigail brought a hand to her forehead. "I cannot believe that you are telling me how to act around my own daughter. I'm her mother!"

Bellamy wondered how angry she would be if he told her the truth. He huffed a breath through his nose.

" I don't think it would be the best idea if you went to see her now."

Abigail's eyes flared.

"She's dealing with a lot of stress and…doesn't want you to see her so…broken." Bellamy had been guessing at the truth, but was fairly convinced that he'd figured it out. After realizing who had been responsible for the death of her father, Clarke had made superior effort in being able to support herself without the help of her mother. She told herself that she could live without her, partially to detach herself from the possibility that either of them might die and partially to begin the foundation of what would turn out to be a cement blockade of feelings. Clarke was good at building walls.

Abigail suddenly seemed to understand and nodded slowly. "Tell her I want to speak with her when she's ready."

Bellamy nodded, thankful that their conversation hadn't materialized into a bloodbath. Sometimes it seemed that the war they were fighting within the camp and against each other was more dangerous than the one outside of the gates. There had been way too many problems between the Ark members and the 100. Too many to count.

Bellamy took a seat in front of the fire for a few minutes, trying to sort all of his crap together. Everything was so messed up. He should be dead by now—he owed his life to Clarke, Octavia, and pretty much every other prisoner who had died at his expense. The only way he'd kept from breaking was by taking out his frustration and stress in bed. But after a while, not even the prettiest of girls could ease his pain. Well, except for Clarke. She seemed to understand his struggles—probably because they were going through it together. She knew that sometimes you need to be strong so that other people don't have to be. Bellamy was surprised that it had taken this long for her to break. She was more persistent than he anticipated. But, then again, she was the most stubborn, sassy-assed person he knew. And Octavia had also outrun his expectations. She was fierce and unafraid, if a bit awkward on the social level. But she was definitely his sister, strong-willed and determined to get what she wanted, even if he didn't agree. Even if he told her not to be.

Snapping out of his thoughts, Bellamy grabbed a quick snack and some water before heading back to his tent. He respected Clarke's privacy, but she needed to eat. She needed to take care of herself.

"Hey Bellamy," a voice called as it passed behind him.

Bellamy's head swiveled around. He gave a little nod. "Murphy."

Bellamy didn't fully trust Murphy, in fact he was still angry at him for what had happened with Charlotte. But he'd been through a lot and Bellamy felt a little bit guilty for his suffering. He seemed to have a change in attitude, anyways.

Finally reaching his tent, Bellamy flipped open the flap.

"Clarke, I got you some—"

He stopped cold. The food fell to the floor as his fingers lost their grip and his eyes widened in a mixture of concern and fear. On the ground before him lay a shaking figure, her arms clutched around her legs, knuckles pale and white as she gasped for air. She looked like a fish out of water with her mouth in an oddly-shaped "O" and her eyes shut tightly, as if in pain. Hot tears ran down her cheeks as her lungs fought between heart-wrenching sobs and a lack of air.

Bellamy was down on his knees in less than a second.

"Clarke! Clarke," he shook her firmly, but she continued to breathe irregularly. His heart rate picked up. What was going on? He pushed back the hair from her eyes to see her expression better. She flinched in response.

Bellamy suddenly remembered where he had seen this before—it had happened with Octavia, the first time they had left her in the floor for over twelve hours. She'd started to feel constricted and scared. Soon, she began having trouble breathing.

_But how did I_—he suddenly remembered.

Lifting Clarke up so she was sitting, he positioned himself in front of her, his hands clasped tightly around her forearms to keep her from falling.

"Clarke, look at me." Her head stayed down, but one of her hands was brought to her chest in a fist. Bellamy brought one hand to her face and tilted it upwards.

"Clarke, it's Bellamy, open your eyes." For a moment, nothing happened, but then her scary gasps began to relax a bit and she squinted through her tears.

"Bellamy?" He had to strain to hear his name.

"Yeah, it's me," he said and, not quite knowing what he was doing, began rubbing his arm up and down hers in comfort.

"Bellamy, my chest—" she managed to choke out, as her other hand joined the other one, overlapping in a death-grip.

"Clarke, look at me," he said firmly, and she opened her eyes wider, blue meeting brown.

Slowly, she began to relax. Her breathing quieted and her fisted hands came to rest in her lap. Her head nodded forward as her chin met her chest.

"Okay," she said, after a minute. Her voice was still a bit shaky. "Okay."

Bellamy released his grip on her shoulders and she managed to steady herself a bit. A minute or so passed before he broke the silence.

"You had a panic attack," he deadpanned.

"I know."

"What happened?" he asked.

Her gaze came up to meet his, but Clarke remained silent, her head shaking minutely from side to side. A dry sob escaped her mouth before she brought her hand to her lips and broke their stare.

"Clarke," he said in what sounded like a warning. He scooted a little bit closer to her, warm brown eyes trying to catch hers. "Clarke what happened?" he whispered.

This time she looked up at him under her dark lashes, guilt playing in her eyes.

"I'm just like him, Bellamy. He proved it." She brought the cuff of her sleeve up to wipe away the remaining tears. "I'm just like him."

"Just like who, Clarke?" Bellamy asked, trying not to sound too intense, too curious.

"Murphy," she whispered, and let her forehead fall onto the front of his shoulder. Bellamy seemed to be frozen.

"What did he say, Clarke?" His voice was strained with tension.

"Doesn't matter," she replied, voice thick as she shook her head against the fabric of his t-shirt.

"Clarke what did he say?" This time Bellamy failed to keep the anger out of his voice.

Clarke sniffled and paused for a moment.

"That I'm a murderer like him. That we're alike, that I'm weak. And then he called me princess. Over and over and over again, even though I told him to stop."

Bellamy could hear the tears in her voice. "I'll be right back," he managed to say in a more neutral tone than he felt.

But Clarke latched onto his arm before he could even so much as stand.

"Please don't go," she whispered, begging him with her eyes. "Please don't leave me here alone." Bellamy couldn't refuse the withered and beaten look in her eyes.

He nodded, understanding. He needed her too.

Bellamy shrugged off his jacket and made his way over to the bed, slipping in and opening up the covers for her to join him. She hesitated for barely a moment before kicking off her shoes and sliding in next to him. Bellamy didn't move when she came to wrap her arm around his waist or when she laid her head against his chest.

He wasn't the cuddly type, in fact girls usually never even made it as far as staying the night. But Clarke wasn't like the other girls he had been with. She didn't want to sleep with him, she just wanted to be near him. And it sort of felt nice to have somebody who could rely on him for more than just a physical relationship. It felt nice to be around somebody who understood.

Bellamy could feel Clarke relaxing against his chest, her draping fist finally unraveling as her fingers hung over his abdomen, breathing becoming more even and deep. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

He was almost sure that she was asleep by the time he said it, but a small part of him knew that she'd heard him.

"You're nothing like him, Clarke. Nothing at all."


	4. Chapter 4

"MURPHY!"

Bellamy's voice bellowed across camp. He didn't care if everybody could hear him. It wasn't his problem. Murphy, on the other hand, most definitely was.

"Where the hell are you?" he shouted as people glanced at him warily, backing away and diverting eye contact. Word had already spread about him killing the chancellor and even if he had bared the brunt of the responsibility for the prisoners on the ground, the Ark members only knew what he was rumored to be capable of. He was unpredictable.

"MURPHY!" Bellamy shouted again, this time entering the food containment area, where he usually hung out. It was empty, except for a woman piling bread into countable stacks. Bellamy stopped his stomping for a moment and ran his tongue over the line of his teeth. His thumb came up to brush the bridge of his nose. Something wasn't right.

He had to find somebody who might have seen him. Walking back towards the tent area, he scanned the camp for possible witnesses.

"Hey!" he yelled, spotting a guard standing close to the gate. He glanced back at Bellamy's voice, eyes raised. Bellamy may have been feared, but he was also respected. Even the guards seemed to follow his lead.  
He made his way over, trying not to break eye contact.

"Have you seen Murphy?" he questioned, brown eyes searching his for an answer. The guard's brows furrowed. "Murphy?"

Bellamy sighed. "Yes. Tall guy, about my height, brown, slick-backed hair. Probably psychotic-looking," Bellamy tacked on blandly. "He might have came out of there," Bellamy pointed towards his tent where he'd left Clarke fast asleep.

The guard's eyes seemed to brighten. "Oh yeah, must have been about twenty minutes ago. Headed in that direction," he replied, nodding towards the medical center.

"Thanks," Bellamy said as he headed in the direction of his extended finger. His heart was already beginning to pound.

Glancing around quickly with mouth slightly open, Bellamy squinted through the sunlight, hoping to catch a glimpse of Murphy's slinking figure. He'd better look as damn guilty as Bellamy thought he deserved.

Suddenly his eyes fell upon slicked hair and a malicious grin.

_There. _

"Murphy!" Bellamy's voice came out dangerous and low, like the bark of a dog. The boy's head whipped around and when his line of vision connected with Bellamy's, the smile disappeared from his face.  
He knew.  
There was a frozen pause between them and for a moment Bellamy thought he was going to run away. But instead, Murphy forced a grin back onto his lips—although it didn't reach his eyes—and got up slowly, walking towards Bellamy as if approaching a wild animal.

Bellamy could tell he was trying to play dumb and with every step he took, Bellamy's eyes darkened a shade. Now they stood a mere foot away  
"Hey-" Murphy tried to say, but in the next second, Bellamy was whipping a fist across his face, almost as if trying to permanently wipe that stupid smile off of his mouth.

Murphy stumbled and brought a hand to his jaw, looking up at Bellamy under downturned eyebrows. He shook his head, the right corner of his mouth twitching, egging Bellamy on.  
"Ha." he sputtered out. "Wrapped around her finger, huh?"

Bellamy sent another blow to his stomach and this time he was on the ground.  
"We have rules here, Murphy," he said evenly, without regret. "And I don't care if they aren't written in stone. All I care is that they are followed. Got it?"

Murphy seemed to wince in pain, but the smirk was still on his face. "Oh, like no killing people? Guess princess isn't innocent either."

Bellamy could feel the urge to deliver another blow to Murphy's face, but instead he fisted his hands under his shoulders and crouched down.

"I don't know what's going through your sick, twisted mind, but there is a difference between a choice and an obligation. Finn was going to die either way. Charlotte and the two other boys you killed could have been spared."

Murphy's eyes took on a vengeful expression. "A death is a death as long as it's done for a good reason. And I didn't kill Charlotte. She killed herself."

Bellamy stood, shaking his head, almost looking sorry. "You're messed up, Murphy."

Sighing, he turned to walk away, before stopping himself to say one last thing. "Do anything to her again, and I will kill you."

He didn't stay to hear what Murphy's response was, but he could have cared less. _

"Clarke?" The soft sound of a female voice woke Clarke from her sleep. She lifted her head from her pillow to look over her shoulder.

"Mom?"

"Yeah, it's me. How are you feeling?" she responded, fully entering the tent and bending to sit next to Clarke.

Her daughter stared back at her with blank eyes. "I'm not ready to talk about it yet," she said in a firm voice.

Abigail sighed. "Clarke...I know that, but I just want you to know that I understand and that if you need somebody—"

"STOP SAYING THAT!" Clarke shouted, moving to sit up and glaring at her mother. "I'm not you! I can't be. Stop."

"Clarke, that's not what I was talking about," Abigail said, brown eyes widening. "Not about your dad."

"Then what? It makes sense," Clarke said, head dropping into the palms of her hands. "You think that because we've both had to kill people we love, that makes us the same. But it's doesn't. It still doesn't mean I'm going to forgive you."

Abigail sighed and reached out to stroke Clarke's hair.

"I know Clarke, that's not what I'm asking, I just meant that, as a kid, I had to deal with some pretty bad stuff too—"

Clarke pulled away abruptly, standing up. "I am NOT a kid anymore. The girl you knew on the Ark is not the same one that you're looking at now. I grew up the first day we landed here; the first day I had to watch my friend get speared in the chest and kill another because poisonous fog had made it so painful, that he didn't even want to live. I'm not Ark-Clarke. I'm Ground-Clarke and a lot has changed. Don't talk to me like I don't know what I've become."

Abigail stood startled. Clarke had never spoken out so brashly before.

"Clarke, I didn't mean it like that, I just...I want to be here for you," she said softly. "I wan't you to know that I'll listen."

She expected Clarke to smile and agree, but instead her eyes filled up with tears. "Yeah just like you were here for me when I was sent to my death."

Abigail shook her head feverently, but Clarke was already making to leave. She was halfway out the door.

"Why him?" her mother called abruptly, panicked. Clarke glanced back to see a broken look on her mother's face as she pointed to the tent around her. "I don't get it." Tears brimmed in her eyes.

Clarke shook her head slowly. "Because he's the only one who makes me feel like I don't always have to act so strong."

And it was true. _

She needed to do something with her hands—and her mind, for that matter. Clarke needed something to keep her busy—to force that lingering sensation of stabbing someone from overtaking her mind. She had considered taking a medical shift for a couple hours, but the minute she walked in the room, somebody was shooing her out.

They wouldn't allow her in and Clarke knew it was either because they were scared of what she was capable of, or didn't understand how somebody so injured would be able to help anybody. Her fingers fidgeted and shook as she looked around frantically.

_There. _

His name was Brandon—or something like that, she didn't quite know. Her mother had once authorized to float his sister. She couldn't remember what it was for, but somehow the decision of his sister's life had required an extra council member to break the tie of whether or not she would be killed. Abigail voted in favor and now, as Clarke approached him, she realized that maybe that decision had earned her something in return—perhaps a respectable seat of heirarchey on the Ark. A week later, she was sitting next to the Chancellor at meetings.  
Either way, Brandon hated anyone who was mildly close with Abby. And Clarke was more than enough. He was a guard now—in his thirties maybe—and strong. Better yet, he was also off duty.

"Hey," Clarke said as she approached him. "Brandon, right?"

He looked up from his cup of water to stare at her for a minute, before standing up. "Go away," he spat, recognizing her quickly.

"Wait!" Clarke called, as he started to walk away. "I just wanted to ask you something."

Clarke could see his shoulders roll in a huff before he turned around to look at her.

"What?" he asked, glaring.

She took a breath. "Will you teach me how to fight?"

He looked a bit taken a back. "You want _me _to teach _you _how to fight?"

Clarke nodded.

"Why would I ever do something for you?" he asked angrily. "I don't owe you anything."

"What, it wouldn't satisfy you to beat me up for a while?" she asked.

He eyed her warily. "Would this have anything to do with what happened last night?"

Clarke shrugged. "Does it matter?"

He huffed through his teeth and glanced around. "Not really...no."

"Allright. When's your next shift?"

"A couple of hours," he replied.

"Great. Meet me in fifteen minutes just outside the gate. I'm sure you can get us through."

And as Clarked walked away, she was fully cognicent of the fact that the only thing she was going to be taught was a lesson—and she couldn't help but feel like maybe she deserved it.


	5. Chapter 5

_BAM! _

The right hook sent Clarke to the ground, dirt digging into her fingernails as she brought up a hand to stop the attack.

"Need a break?" a mocking tone asked. She looked up to see Brandon with a grin on his face.

Clarke shook her head, using her forearm to wipe away the blood from under her nose, and stood up to a wobbily stance.

They'd been at it for half-an-hour. By now, she was covered in bruises—all the way from her calves up to the crown of her head. Her stomach had suffered the most brutality, as Brandon had used deceptive maneuvers to lead her arms away from her midsection and up to her face while he took the opportunity to jab her in the gut.

He was ruthless, she'd learned quickly—fast and brutal. He was almost sadistic in manner, smirking every time he got a good enough hit to force a grunt or a wince from her tired mouth.  
She'd picked well enough at least. He was good.

"Ready?" he asked.

She gulped. "Yeah."

This time he sent a blow to her jugular and she clutched her neck while he pounded his fist into her rib. _Finn_, she thought. That's why she was doing this. It had taken her a while to comb throug her tangled emotions, but after analyzing what had happened, she realized that she wasn't fighting Brandon to punish herself for killing him. She'd done the right thing—deep in her heart she knew there was no other way. She was fighting Brandon to override the pain in her chest. And with every punch he placed, she could feel that sensation lesson just a little bit.

_BAM! _This one hit her in the left shoulder and she was flung to the side, trying to regain her balance. "Focus," Brandon muttered.

Clarke clutched her shoulder, counted to five, and regained a defensive stance. She landed a punch to his gut, perhaps her third hit, and dodged a hook that would have nailed her in the head. His other fist connected with her stomach again and she let out a breath through her teeth.  
Suddenly, the reign of attacking stopped and she looked up to see Brandon gazing to his right.

"What the _hell _is going on?" a familiar voice seethed. _Shit. _

Clarke did her best to sound steady, taking a deep breath before reponding. "I'm learning how to fight," she said, eyes connecting with Bellamys.

He looked angry—pissed actually. The only time she'd seen him this mad was when Octavia had let Lincoln out of the dropship.

"Really?" he asked.

She nodded. "Yeah. Brandon's teaching me." She hooked a thumb in his direction. Bellamy glanced at him.

"Teaching you what, exactly?"

"I told you. How to fight."

"Doesn't look like you're learning."

"Goodbye Bellamy," Clarke said, turning to Brandon.

He eyed her back warily. "Look, if I'd known that your boyfriend was going to get all piss—"

"He's not my boyfriend," Clarke hissed. "Now go."

Brandon shrugged and slammed a fist into her upper chest. She staggered backwards, although the determined expression never left her face.

He delivered another blow to her diaphragm.

As she kicked towards his knee, she narrowly missed a punch to the face.

"Allright, that's it!" she heard a voice say, and in the next moment she was being thrown up into the air and over a shoulder.

"What the hell, Bellamy? Put me down!" Clarke demanded angrily.

"Shut up," he spat back. "I don't want to hear it."

She tried to hold back a grunt of pain as his shoulder dug into her bruised ribs.

"And _you_," she could hear him say as she was spun around. "Can get the hell out here. I don't want to see you near her again."

Brandon's face was pure confusion as she was forced back into camp.

She clutched the back of his jacket and squeezed her eyes shut as he carried her to divert the pain. She could imagine the weird looks that people were probably giving them—a beat-up blondie slung over the back of an angry-looking asshole—at least, that's what she assumed he looked like. She could feel the excessive weight his boots made as they dug into the mud.

"Bellamy, put me down," she gritted out. He didn't respond, didn't even break pace.

"Bellamy," she said again, her voice breaking a bit this time.

He must have heard the pain in her tone, because in the next second her feet were on the ground and his hand was firnly gripping her forearm instead of her waist. He didn't look at her once.

By the time they got to his tent, she could tell he wasn't going ot be taking anything lightly. Pushing her into the tent first, he followed behind her, closing the flap after they were both in.

She stood there awkwardly as he kept his back to her, hands on his hips and head tilted towards the floor.

She waited.  
Silence.

"Bellamy I-"

"WHAT THE HELL CLARKE?"

She jumped at his voice as he turned around to face her. The look in his eyes was pure fury. She was almost scared as he closed the distance and placed his hands roughly on both of her shoulders. His eyes darted back and forth, trying to meet hers.

"What the actual hell?" he seethed. "It was stupid, I know—" she started.

"Stupid? Stupid." he repeated. Letting out an incredulous huff and raking a hand through his hair. "Look I know this Finn thing is...I know it's hard. But does that mean that you have to go off and try to kill yourself?" he asked. "Because that's pretty much what it looked like to me!"

"I was just displacing my anger. I needed an outlet," she tried to reason.

"You mean you were displacing your pain," he corrected. "By letting somebody beat you up, you could forget about what happened and get what you thought you deserved."

Was she that easy to read? It was almost scary her how well he knew her.

Clarke opened her mouth to respond, but shut it when she kew that there was nothing she could say.

"Finn's death was unavoidable, Clarke. Nobody could save him. By ending his life, you—"

"I KNOW WHAT I DID!" This time it was her turn to yell. She looked frantic, scared. "Stop telling me what I did," she lowered her voice a bit. " I know there was no other way, I know that, but Bellamy..." she paused and instead of anger, tears filled her eyes as she looked up at him.

"Bellamy, I told him I loved him, right before he died," she whispered and she could almost swear that his expression dropped to dissapointment for a moment, but perhaps it was just sympathy.

She closed her eyes. "But I lied," she admitted. "I didn't love hime; not the way that he loved me. And now I feel like he's still clinging onto me somehow—like he'll always be around, expecting me to fulfill my promise. And somehow...it seemed like letting myself get beat up might make up for the lie that I told. I deserved—"

"Stop," Bellamy interrupted. "Clarke, you don't deserve anything like that. You can live knowing that in his final moments, he was happy. You gave him peace of mind for a peaceful death. He died believing that he was loved and I'm sure that in some way, you did love him. Stop beating yourself up for it."

Clarke stared at him for a moment, trying to smile through the tears, gasping quietly as she dropped her head and tried to wipe away the wetness from her cheeks.

"It was really," she paused to bring the palm of her hand up to her head. "It was really bad." Her shoulders shook when her voice broke.

And in the next moment, Bellamy was wrapping her in his arms. "You are so brave, Clarke," he whispered into her hair.

"What if I don't want to be?" was her muffled response.

"You don't have to be for me."

"Thanks."

And Bellamy could almost feel an invisible wieght lift off of her shoulders as a sigh escaped from her mouth.


End file.
